


Nevermore

by NateFraust



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 09:31:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16015145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NateFraust/pseuds/NateFraust
Summary: Originally posted on FF.net in August of 2015Inspired by/ a spiritual sequel to Rose of the Nile's "Another Hope": World-weary and disillusioned by the Order, an elderly Shay Cormac seeks to change his past through the use of a Precursor artifact, and save the American Brotherhood. Changing the past, however, has... unforeseen consequences.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Another repost of a work from my FF.net account. I might continue this, if there's enough interest.

Prologue

_December 1798, Cherry Island, Loch Ness, Scottish Highlands_

The elderly gentleman set down his oars, then pulled off his grey gloves, standing up and stepping off the rowboat as he did so. He glanced back at the fires dotting the shoreline behind him, and gave a small smirk.  _Sorry, Mr. Nelson, but I make my own luck._

Remembering the task ahead, as well as the consequences if he failed, the gentleman sobered up and began walking inland.

_As well as my own demons._

* * *

 

The gentleman grasped the oak branch and pulled himself up. At the height the tree provided him, he was able to make out the telltale lights of a British patrol approaching rapidly from the east.  _Probably Cornwallis' men,_ he thought to himself.  _Better hurry._

He blinked, bringing everything into sharp contrast: faint red dots peppered the horizon, some flickering in between the trees. Twisting around to survey his surroundings, the gentleman saw a small golden glow a few miles behind him.  _Got you._

He blinked again, his vision returning to normal, then let himself fall forward, heart pounding in tense anticipation, then flipped, eyeing the bundle of fallen branches, leaves, and rotting compost for a split second longer. He hit the pile with a resounding  _crunch_ , and after a few moments to check himself for damage, jumped out of the pile. He blinked yet again, just to get his bearings, then headed off towards his goal.

He stepped forward, passing over the threshold to the dolmen, and entered the temple.

Almost immediately, the gentleman felt his muscles seize up, and gritted his teeth.  _I hate these damn things,_  he thought to himself darkly. He turned his neck, the only part of his body he was allowed to control besides his head, and spat at the stone column beside him.

The lines etched on the stone flared blue once before settling down again.

He got the warning.

The gentleman's body moved forward stiffly; he had only a few seconds to twist his head before he passed through a darkened doorway and the tightness disappeared.

He fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Rising after a moment, he noted the lone structure in the middle of the circular room he was in; moonlight from a hole in the ceiling reflected off a gnarled old tree, whose withered branches pulsed with an eerie golden light. An ancient sword, the blade made of a strange metal, jutted out of the trunk.

"What the hell?" the gentleman muttered. His eyes lit up suddenly, in recognition and horror. "No… it can't be…"

" _It is, Shay Patrick Cormac._ "

The vaguely masculine voice bounced around the chamber, echoing in Shay's ears. Darkness came over the room as a hidden panel slid over the hole in the ceiling almost silently; the black persisted for a moment before a golden humanoid figure flickered into view.

"And which damned Precursor might you be?" Shay demanded in a low tone, fists clenched.

The figure chuckled, stepping closer to the old Templar. " _I've had many names throughout the eons: Laran, Ares, Mars-_ "- it-or was it  _he_?- gestured to the sword embedded in the tree- "- _Týr-_ " He paused for a moment, and in a split second, the figure came into focus.

Shay recognized him in moments. The Precursor's flaming red hair, streaked through with silver, hung down to the small of his back in a tight braid from the base of his skull; his fierce mustache mingled with the trimmed bush of a beard on his chin and neck. His eyes, a startling emerald, twinkled with mirth; Shay thought he saw some other emotion in those verdant orbs, but they darkened before he could ask.

The male Precursor crossed his arms, one flesh and bone, the other seemingly made of solid starlight, over a steel breastplate and leather under-armor. He stopped a few paces from Shay, legs akimbo. The leather kilt swayed in some invisible breeze, and Shay could just barely make out the pair of worn leather boots underneath. But before he could open his mouth, the Precursor spoke.

" _-Nuada._ " The Precursor finished.

Shay remained standing. His parents had told him of his people's legends, but simply because one suddenly appeared to him did not mean he had to submit.

"What is that thing? The artifact stuck in the tree?" He gestured towards the sword with his fist.

Nuada turned, gazed at the object for a moment, then turned back. " _A Sword of Eden, of course. Mine, to be specific. Surely you remember the stories?_ "

"Aye," Shay hissed. "What's it do?"

Nuada chuckled. " _Nothing. At least, not at the moment. All it needs is the Rock to be complete. That's where you come in._ "

"What rock?" Shay questioned, darkness coming over his eyes. "And besides that,  _why the hell_  should I trust a single word you say?! Your kind have killed so many people, it's astonishing people even worshipped you!"

Nuada sighed, shaking his head. " _Must I explain_ everything _to you people? The hanging posts. What you Celts now call Stonehenge. As to why you should trust me: as a hunter, I can say that things lost will always come back to destroy us later._ "

Shay shook his head, anger smoldering. "Whatever bullshit you Precursors come up with, I suppose I have to follow." He sighed in frustration. "And what am I supposed to do when I get there?"

" _Insert the Sword into the Rock, and then-_ "

Nuada's image suddenly flickered, and Shay was only able to catch " _-backwards in-right your wrongs- will give you hope when all looks dark-_ ". Then the image vanished, moonlight streaming back into the room.

Shay turned to the tree once more. Gritting his teeth, he stomped forward, grasped the sword by the hilt, and wrenched it out of the trunk of the tree. Almost immediately, the tree began to glow, mending itself in the blink of an eye, petals of reddish gold and silver stalks appearing seconds after. As Shay watched, the flower folded in on itself, the glowing stamen hidden from sight, and the "fruit" of the Apple- layers upon layers of strange pulsing lines and points of gilded light- swelled around it. Within the space of a minute, the Apple, ripened, fell to the ancient stone floor with a  _clank_.

Shay stared at the Apple for a moment. The artifact was  _calling_  to him, whispering promises of power, control, and godhood. Swallowing, he removed the handkerchief from his breast pocket, laid it over the Apple, then quickly grasped the object and stuffed it into his coat pocket. The whispering was even worse now, but Shay only gritted his teeth, pushed the invading thoughts out of his mind, and left the temple.

* * *

 

Shay gazed upon the stones with wariness.  _This better work,_  he thought grimly, all too cognizant of the dried blood on his hands.

He'd slaughtered the search party Cornwallis had sent; he was a shadow of terror in the forest, a true hunter. Of course, he could have excused it on the Apple's influence over his mind, but in reality, he'd  _wanted_  the blood, the rush of adrenaline at having escaped death once again, the feel of life slipping from someone else's hands into his own.

And it sickened him.

Drawing the hood up over his head, Shay stepped into a new world.

The light swept Shay along, slamming him against invisible walls and rocks in the silver stream. He struggled to hold onto a singular thought, the thing that haunted him in his sleep for decades:  _A pity. You had so much_ potential _._

* * *

 

_December 1845, Philadelphia, United States_

Edgar was roused from his sleepy musings on  _strigoi_  by a sudden tapping emanating in front of him. He opened his eyes to golden light.

With a cry, Edgar tumbled backwards. Chest heaving, he shot up, glaring at the sliver of light coming from the doorway, and, grumbling, strode towards the doors. He grasped the doorknob, yanked it open, and immediately covered his eyes.

After a few moments, the light faded, though the tapping continued at a faster pace. Edgar peered at the strange golden sphere enclosed in the glass display case. The light was coming from the object.

"What? It never did that before..." Edgar walked towards the sphere cautiously; gently opening the display case, he touched the sphere with his bare hand.

A rush of images and sound flowed into his head, almost too much to comprehend. The next instant, it was over.

Edgar collapsed, heart breaking against his chest, and lay on the floor for a moment, gathering his strength. A few minutes later, he pushed himself up, and froze. There was a glowing man in his study.

Edgar swallowed thickly, then asked in a quivering voice, "Reynolds?"

The man, long black hair nearly gone, stared at the marble bust of Athena Pallas above Edgar's bedroom door with narrowed eyes, fists clenched. His thick black and red coat rose and fell as he breathed heavily, swords clanking and muskets shifting in their bindings.

"Reynolds?" Edgar repeated his query. "Sir, if you are not Reynolds, then surely you do not fear him as I do, seeing as how you appear to be a soldier. Tell me, what is your name, good sir? How did you come to be hear?" Shuddering at a suddenly morbid thought, he whispered, "Are you dead?"

The spectre suddenly turned his head to look at Edgar; the poet, his rambling interrupted, took a step back, suddenly terrified of his burning golden eyes, full of equal measures knowledge, sorrow, and  _madness_.

" _Never again._ " The spectre's voice was full of rage.

" _Never again._ "


	2. I: Scarred

I: Scarred

**_January 1752, Port-Menier, Canada, New France_ **

The snow, freshly fallen, crunched under his feet as Shay suddenly stopped. He looked around slowly.

"Where the hell am I?" he wondered aloud. The stones were nowhere to be found, just miles and miles of forest and snowy ground.

He glanced down for a moment. His coat and shirt looked the same, albeit a little bit more blue. His gloves were black.

_Black._

Trembling, Shay fumbled with the slippery leather of his right glove for a moment before finally yanking off the offending article of clothing. Rolling up the periwinkle blue coat sleeve, he hurriedly unclasped the familiar bracer with frantic abandon, tossing it aside carelessly, and unbuttoned his ivory shirt sleeve.

The scars weren't there.

Shay felt like crying out; moments later, he did. Not in relief, but in agony.

* * *

 

 _October 1759, The_ Morrigan _, New York_

_Someone was knocking on his cabin door._

_"Go 'way." Shay grumbled._

_The knocking persisted._

_"GO AWAY!" Shay shouted at the door, slurred voice loud and angry. He took another swig of grog from his silver hip-flask, rubbing away the tears blurring his vision._

_"Shay!" Gist's tone reeked of concern. "You've been in there for two days, man! What the hell is going on?"_

_"Oh, wouldn't you like to know," Shay sneered. "Isn't it obvious? I've been…" He paused, rubbing his stubbled chin with his bare hand. "Reminiscing."_

_His quartermaster gave a sigh of frustration. "And what the devil does that mean?"_

_"You_ know _," Shay shot back, grog forgotten for a moment. "Don't say you don't."_

_Gist sighed again; a moment later, Shay heard the sound of footsteps thudding away from the door._

Good _, Shay thought to himself, tossing back the hip-flask with abandon._ Let me be. I'm done with you-

_The cabin door suddenly crashed open, and Shay startled, cursing as grog spilled over his bare chest. His head shot towards the doorway to see Haytham studying him with flashing eyes. Gist cowered in the background._

_"Master Cormac," the Templar Grandmaster asked in a calm tone, "what are you doing?"_

_"What does it look like,_ Grandmaster _?" Shay retorted in a mocking tone. He swung his legs out of the bed and got to his feet, advancing on the bastard with every word. "I'm_ done _. No more. No more killing, no more Artifacts, no more hunting._ No more _."_

_By the time he finished, Shay was face-to-face with Haytham. His face was in a snarl, making him look positively feral next to the collected demeanor of the elder Templar._

_"Stop," Haytham said, never blinking as Shay bared his teeth. "You are acting like a child, Shay, and I have no need for children in this war."_

_"War?!" Shay gave a savage laugh, a bellowing sound from the pit of his chest. "This isn't a war, Kenway." His voice lowered to a whisper. "It's a fucking_ massacre _."_

_"Yes, and that is how it must be, if we are to protect these people." Haytham shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. "What would you have me do? Let the Assassins terrorize the populace and cause chaos for the entire world? Where would there be order and peace then?"_

_"Fuck_ order _!" Shay cried, eyes wide. "How is there to be peace without freedom?! Freedom to choose, to believe, to lo-"_

_Shay abruptly stopped, a choking sound coming from his throat, as Haytham seized him round the neck and squeezed tightly. His bulging eyes shot to the glint of cold steel under the Templar's coat._

_"It appears to me," Haytham said, ice cold eyes piercing into Shay's own, "that you have been compromised. By tradition, I should cut you down where you stand, here and now." His hand was completely still._

_Shay stared at Haytham, trying to communicate his defiance through blazing eyes, but was unable to muster the strength, or air, to do so._

_A moment later, Haytham released Shay, his hand retreating into his cloak. Shay, coughing violently, stumbled back into his desk, clutching his throat with one hand and the pinewood edge with the other._

_"However, due to your skill and usefulness at hunting Assassins, I will forego tradition in favor of leniency." Haytham's eyes shined with cruel mirth as he smiled thinly. "Besides, this is a new world, and a new dawn is coming. Who would we be to not adjust with the times?" He bent towards Shay slightly, tipping his cocked hat. "Master Cormac." He shut the cabin door._

_Shay wobbled back to his bed, using the desk for support, and sat down upon the mattress heavily. Shutting his eyes, he searched his pockets for the item he was looking for. His fingers brushed against the cotton fabric; pulling out the small bundle of mousy brown hairs wrapped in the torn strip of violet and tied with a red strip of ribbon, Shay brought it to his nose and breathed in deeply. The scent of roses, fresh earth, and worn leather filled his nostrils, and his eyes filled with tears as his mind filled with memories of Hope._

A pity. You had so much _potential._

_Shay clenched his fists, enveloping the small remnant of Hope he still possessed, and rose to his feet once more. Crossing over to the weapons rack on the right side of the cabin, he touched his bracers lightly before grasping the parrying dagger by its hilt and drawing it from its sheath._

_Shay sat on the edge of the bed, resting the bare skin of his right arm on its corresponding leg, and positioned the tip of the dagger over his wrist, the veins bulging as his fist clenched tighter. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear the film of tears from his vision, before opening them again and moving the blade from his wrist to the lower edge of his forearm. Steeling himself, Shay set his teeth, lowered the blade of the dagger, and began to draw the razor-sharp edge against his flesh._

_A minute or so later, Shay stared at the two letters carved into his forearm, lightheaded and oblivious of the stinging feeling running up and down his arm._

_A crimson_ HJ _shined up at him._

* * *

 

Shay awoke to the feeling of cold seeping into his pants.

Head pounding, he craned his neck to observe his surroundings. He was moving, being dragged through the snow towards somewhere. Ropes dug into his armpits, making moving them near impossible.

Shay threw his head back and caught a glimpse of a white hood.

His blood ran cold.

Instinctively, Shay released his Hidden Blade with a flick of his left wrist. In the blink of an eye, he bodily drew the blade across his body and slashed at his bindings savagely.

As soon as he was freed, Shay scrambled to his feet and charged the Assassin, knocking the unsuspecting killer off his feet before he could turn around. His vision was red.

"Shay!"

At the muffled cry, Shay froze, his blade an inch from the base of the Assassin's neck.

" _Liam?_ " he choked out, voice quivering in horror.

"What the hell are you  _doing_ , man?!" Liam shouted in annoyance. "Get off me!"

Shay scrambled off of his childhood friend, tripping over his own feet as he did so, and fell backwards into the snow.

Liam got to his feet, spitting snow and dirt out of his mouth, and twisted to look at Shay. "What's gotten into you, Shay? I'm your friend, not some damned Templar!"

Shay flinched as the last word passed Liam's mouth, mind dredging up old memories:  _"How could you do this to us?"_

" _How could you kill Hope?!"_

"I'm sorry," he whispered, staring at the ground before him.

Liam sighed, then walked forward and extended a hand. Shay grasped it, and Liam helped him to his feet. "Come on. I need your help with the firewood. After we're done with our assignments-"

As if on cue, Shay heard the distant sound of thunder.

"What-" Liam turned towards the sound.

"Cannon fire." Shay's tone was grim as he turned in the direction of the far-away battle. "Let's go; Chevailer needs our help."

"How do you know that?" Liam sounded confused.

Shay paused, panicking for a moment, before calming himself. "I've got a hunch, that's all."

"But-"

Shay was already running to the nearest tree.

* * *

 

Liam observed Shay as he walked forward and began conversing with Chevailer in a quiet voice, a sharp contrast to the irate shouting of the French seaman.

In fact, the Shay he knew was  _nothing_  like the one before him. By this time, he should have been shouting at Chevailer loudly, if not louder than the nobleman, already. His shoulders were more rigid than normal, and his hands were at his sides, unclenched.

Something wasn't right.

Chevailer, miraculously defused now, turned away from Shay with a huff and started walking back towards his injured men. Shay turned on his heel and jogged back towards Liam.

"We need to talk," Liam interrupted Shay as the ebony-haired Irishman opened his mouth to speak. " I don't know what the fuck's going on with you, but-"

"I know, Liam. I know." Shay sounded tired, and hollow. "I-" He swallowed. "I'll tell you everything once we get to the Homestead."

Liam honestly wanted answers  _now_ , but he held his tongue and instead nodded stiffly.

Shay clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Good. Now, we have some smugglers to free. Care for a little challenge?"

Liam paused for a moment, then gave his friend a small grin. "Why not?"

* * *

 

Shay grasped the Sword-  _Claíomh Solais_ , it had whispered to him in his mind- with one hand and violently slashed his dagger across the throat of the final British guard with the other.

The man clasped his hands around the scarlet wound, trying in vain to hold on to the fragile grasp he had on life.

Shay relieved him of the effort by ramming the Sword through the side of his body and out his back, severing his spinal cord and heart.

The body fell to the floor, twitching, as blood soaked the oak planks of the poop deck brownish-red.

Shay stopped for a moment, letting the bloodlust leave him, then stepped over the body and walked towards Liam and Chevailer, who stared at him in awe.

"It appears the cabbage farmer has become quite the hunter," Chevailer quipped tauntingly, though his voice held a hint of respect.

"Aye," Liam said, eyes wide. "I didn't even have the chance to take down one man before he took down four."

"I think this merits a nickname for the young hunter, do you not?" Chevailer thought to himself for a moment, hand on his chin, before his eyes lit up and he smiled slyly.

"The  _Faucon de Guerre_."

"The War Hawk." Shay mused over the title in his mind. "I suppose it fits."

If Chevailer was surprised by Shay's sudden knowledge of French, it did not show on his face. " _En effet_."

"Oy, what's that?" Liam pointed to a flash of light off in the distance.

"Let me see…" Chevailer withdrew a telescope from his coat, extended it, and looked through the glass. His face drained of color, and he cursed, " _Merde! Ils détruisent mon putain de bateau! Ceux-_ "

"We'll save your ship, Louis." Shay reassured the French Assassin. "Don't worry!"

Chevailer snorted. "And what are we going to save it with? This piece of  _merde_?!"

"Aye," Shay responded, chest swelling with pride at the memories of the  _Morrigan_ 's naval achievements. "She'll do just fine. Might need some swabbing and a bit of paint, but she'll do."

"What'll you name her, Captain?" Shay looked at Liam, who had a smile on his face, and returned the expression.

"The  _Morrigan_ , First Mate. I have a feeling she'll more than live up to the name."

Shay turned back to the wheel and began barking out orders in a loud voice, urging the ship towards her first battle. As they sailed into dangerous waters, he couldn't get an image out of his head: Liam shuddering slightly when Shay had smiled at him.

He wondered why.


	3. II: The Hunt

II: The Hunt

**_March 1752, Davenport Homestead, Massachusetts Bay, British America_ **

Shay stared at the Sword, holding the double-edged blade in both hands. His reflection stared back at him in the gilded metal, warped and darkened.

"Étain?" His call hung in the air of the cabin like cold honey.

The blade shimmered and flashed, brightening the cabin with a light much greater than that of mere candles; Shay was forced to close his eyes tightly. When he opened them again and looked up, the spirit was standing in front of him.

The gaze she regarded him with was much warmer than that of Nuada, and the joy in her emerald eyes seemed genuine.

" _Hello, Shay. I sense a query on your mind. What is it you wish to know?_ "

"What is my purpose here? How am I supposed to convince Achilles of the dangers that arroware to come if he's still being so damn  _stubborn_?"

" _The Sword gives you great influ-_ "

"I don't want to force his hand, Étain. He just-" Shay sighed in frustration. "He needs to  _know_ , and I'm not the one to teach him."

" _Then who should?_ " the spirit asked.

"Someone that he trusts," Shay responded after a few moments. "Someone who's been with him since the beginning, or near it."

Étain looked at him expectantly.

"Liam." He shuddered as phantom bones broke against solid ice. "No doubt he thinks me mad already."

Two days before the  _Morrigan_  had reached the Homestead's port, Liam had caught him tracing the area where the scars should have been absent-mindedly. Face stony and emotionless, he had refused to talk to his friend until he was willing to come clean with him.

Étain hummed in agreement." _Perhaps. Or perhaps he is simply frustrated._ "

Shay gave a bark of laughter. "As am I. As am I."

* * *

 

Liam stomped up the hill towards the Manor, fists clenched.

Shay had shut himself inside the captain's quarters for nearly half of the two months they'd been at sea, and in that time, the Irish quartermaster had had to put down an attempted mutiny by rankled crewmates, find fresh water to replace their stores, which had gone stagnant not long after Shay's self-exile, complete the assignments Achilles had given both of them alone (which, in and of itself, was not an easy task), and avoid detection by overzealous British privateers and French corsairs. And when the black-haired bastard finally made an appearance around the start of February, he put forth bizarre commands to dock at obscure towns along the coast of New France, and, as part of an apparent death wish, recklessly engaged the very same ships Liam had been successfully avoiding thus far.

Needless to say, Liam was not a very happy man.

Huffing in frustration, Liam approached the chipped and pocked woodcutting stump. Picking up the splitting axe in one hand and a piece of firewood in the other, he set down the wood, hefted the axe to nearly above his head, and swung down savagely.

The wood splintered, breaking off near the left side of the log. Growling, Liam grasped another log and repeated the process, with much the same results. Again, he set another block. Again, he chopped.

It felt like hours later when he felt a hand grasp his shoulder.

Letting out a savage yell, Liam twisted round, wrenching out of the person's grip. Axe clenched in his right hand, he drew his arm back as though to strike.

"Liam!" Achilles stared at his old apprentice with a piercing gaze. "What's gotten into you?"

Liam froze for a moment, then dropped the axe. Hanging his head in shame, he whispered, "It's nothing."

"What?"

"It's nothing, Mentor," Liam spoke up, still not meeting the elder Assassin's eyes. "I just… I had a few things to take care of."

"What sort of things?" Achilles pressed.

Liam yanked at his meager mess of hair with both hands, blowing out air through clenched teeth. He finally looked at Achilles' worried expression, then helplessly gestured to the port with an angry grunt.

"Ah." Achilles nodded, amused anxiety flickering over his features. "What did he do this time?"

"That's just the thing, Achilles," Liam said, releasing his short blonde locks. "He's been  _better_. He's better at- at  _everything_!" He shook his head at the Mentor's puzzled, skeptical expression. "Hear me out. When we were out getting firewood two months ago, he collapsed on the edge of a cliff. He didn't fall off, thank God, but when he came to while I was dragging him to our camp…"

He shuddered, remembering his friend's eyes, full of hatred and terror. "He was about to kill me."

"Then he has betrayed us?" Achilles' voice was tinged with fearful sorrow

"No. At least, I do not think so." Liam went on to describe the events at Port-Menier to the Colonial Mentor, sparing no details. By the time he was finished, another Assassin was approaching them, walking slowly and with his navy blue hood up. He smelled of sea brine and sand.

The Colonial Assassins rose. Achilles moved to greet the Caribbean Master Assassin, draping his arm across the man's shoulders and drawing him close. "Adéwalé."

The man mirrored his actions. "Achilles. It has been too long, breddah."

Achilles chuckled. "Indeed it has. How go things with Mistress Kenway?"

"Not well, I'm afraid," Adéwalé said, releasing Achilles. He then turned to Liam, who had a blank expression plastered on his face. He bowed his head in acknowledgement and greeting. Liam did the same.

"O'Brien." Adéwalé looked up at the Irishman, then at Achilles. "We have much to discuss."

* * *

 

Shay swung his legs over the thick tree branch, confident that it would hold his weight, then leaned back into the crux of the tree. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he stared up at the morning sky, mind whirring with the information Adéwalé had given him and what he knew from before.

_Haytham never told me about Jennifer. Suppose he didn't want anyone to have leverage on him. But everything else..._

He let out a low groan as the pressure between his eyes mounted. Closing his eyes, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose for a moment as the pain ebbed. The whole "second life" business was bloody confusing as hell, and apparently, Haytham had been lying to him for years.

Shay chuckled bitterly.  _Of course he did, you stupid fool. What the fuck were you_ thinking _?! Siding with the goddamn_ Templars _, of all the fucking-_

"Master Cormac!"

Shay, startled from his mental self-beration, let out a rather high-pitched yelp as he flailed to keep his balance on the tree branch. Finding the equilibrium he sought a few moments later, he closed his eyes, breathed through his nose, then twisted to glare at the young messenger on the ground below him.

"What is it, Samuel?" Shay growled out.

The teenaged Assassin blanched at the outright furious tone and shuffled his feet, lowering his gaze to the base of the pine tree. His mouth moved, but Shay could hear no words.

"What?" Shay demanded in a softer tone. "Speak up!"

"M-mistress Jensen has requested your presence at the tr-training grounds, Master Cormac." Samuel stammered in a timid, yet audible voice.

Shay let out a sigh, then pushed off the off-shoot branch he was lying on, moved to the edge of the primary branch, and leapt off, startling the black-feathered goshawk that was about to land. He adjusted himself, hitting the pile of dead leaves a moment later, then popped out in front of Samuel. Samuel flinched.

"Lead the way, Drake," Shay said, motioning ahead of them with a gloved hand.

Samuel quickly nodded, then turned around and took off towards the clearing without a second glance.

Shay let out a sigh of frustration, then started sprinting after the fiery-headed lad. His heart pounded in his chest, and a feeling of apprehensive dread swept over him. He was going to finally see her again. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to keep the tears from falling

_Hope._

_Forgive me._

* * *

 

Hope's brow furrowed in confused frustration.

Shay had walked into the clearing a few steps behind Samuel, who kept glancing at the ebony-haired man with an expression akin to abashed fear.

Kesegowaase had reprimanded him for missing nearly two hours of training even before he had sat down, the Native's voice raised in irritation, and yet, instead of arguing with the elder Assassin, Shay merely nodded his head, eyes on the fire ahead of him. He lifted his gaze only once, when Liam handed him a cup of tea, and she could have sworn some sort of silent communication happened between the two men in that single instant when their eyes met.

And if that wasn't odd enough, every time she said something, Shay flinched.

He  _flinched_.

What the hell was going on?

* * *

 

Shay felt Hope's eyes on him as he jogged to catch up with Liam, burning into his skull. His heart beat an irritating pulse against his ears.  _Don't focus on_ her _, you dolt. The mission. The mission is all that's important._

When he and Liam were a fair distance away from the meeting area, Liam turned on him. "What's the matter with you?" he whispered fiercely.

"I-" Shay began.

"You won't talk to me," Liam continued, interrupting him, "you don't argue with anyone, and you  _ignored_  Hope." Shay's heart seized in anxiety. " _Hope_ , Shay. You  _never_  ignore her."

"I  _have to_ , Liam. She's-" Shay tore his gaze from his childhood friend and stared off at the sea.  _Can I tell him?_ Should _I?_

"She's  _what_ , Shay?" Liam sounded strained. "What is she to you?"

"I love her, alright?!" Shay snapped. "I've loved her since 1759."

Liam stepped back, shock and hurt plain on his face. Shay stepped towards him, hand outstretched. "Liam-"

"Who are you?" Liam's voice was shaky.

"I'm  _Shay_ , Liam, I've always-"

"No." Liam violently shook his head. "No, you're not. You're a fucking madman. 1759?" He scoffed in disbelief. "No, it's not possible."

"It is, Liam. It is."

"How, then?" Liam crossed his arms. "Tell me how you did it."

Shay sighed. Waving a hand at the cliffside, he motioned for Liam to sit. "It's a long story, and I don't have much time left."

* * *

 

**_December 1798, Cherry Island, Loch Ness, Scottish Highlands_ **

_Shay walked out of the dolmen, teeth clenched painfully tight. When his boots passed the threshold once more, a wall slid over the opening with nary a sound._

_The scrape of metal over stone was nearly deafening._

_Letting out a hiss of pain, Shay jammed his fingers into his ears, squinting as an invisible axe split open his skull._

_"What the hell…" he ground out._

_"_ It appears that everything is in working order. _"_

_"Who said that?" Shay whirled round, searching for the source of the voice._

_"_ Nuada didn't tell you, then? _"_   _The echoing voice, tinged with a lilting feminine accent, sounded surprised._

 _"Didn't tell me what?" The world lit up in shades of black and white when Shay narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?" His piercing gaze swept the oaks; no red, no gold._ Nothing.

_"I must be going mad." Shay gripped his skull, squeezing his eyes shut. "Must be."_

_"_ No, you're not, Shay. If anything, you're more sane than most anyone else on this earth. _"_

_"Lies," Shay whispered, eyes wide and panicked._

_Silence. Then, after a few moments, the non-existent woman sighed. "Clearly_ , I've been doing this all wrong. Take out the Sword, Shay. _"_

_"Why?"_

_"_ So that I can talk to you. _"_

_After a moment's hesitation, Shay reached across his abdomen and drew the Sword of Eden from the scabbard strapped round his waist. The blade mercifully made no sound as it slid from its sheath; moonlight bounced off the reddish-golden metal, giving the Piece of Eden an appearance akin to a sword of pure fire._

_Shay could not help but marvel at the sight, eyes affixed on the image of flame. Here was a thing of deadly beauty, of power ancient and vast. Surely any who touched such a weapon were gods in their own right! To wield the strength of the sun itself-_

_"_ SHAY! _"_

_"What?" Shay wrenched his head away from the Sword. He blinked rapidly as the dark thoughts slipped through his grasp, then sank to his knees. "Oh, God…"_

_"_ I should have  _known_ this would happen! _" The woman sounded frustrated, and, to Shay's surprise, afraid. "_ She still has some sort of control over the Claímoh! Étain, you stupid,  _stupid_ ,  _STUPID_ - _"_

_"Stop." Shay forced himself back to his feet, trembling in slowly-fading horror. "Now is not the time."_

_"_ But- _"_

 _"_ Not now _, Étain, or whatever your name is." His tone brooked no argument. "I have no idea how much time we've lost, but we need to go right-"_

_The report of a flintlock rifle shattered the droning of crickets that filled the night air. Shay instinctively ducked, feeling the bullet whistle right past his right ear, before whirling around, drawing a pistol as he did so and pulling the trigger._

_The yelp of pain from the soldier he had just shot, as well as the subsequent cries of outrage from his comrades, helped to mask Shay's movements as he scrambled up the closest tree he could find. From his new vantage point, he could see the glint of flintlock rifles not a quarter of a mile away from him. He grimaced. The fools had sealed their fate, all on orders from a smug fucking Templar._

Damn you, Cornwallis.

_Shay maneuvered through the oaks like a shade, keeping his prey in his peripheral vision while he got into position. Pausing for only a moment, Shay crept along the branches above the rear soldier, who was currently searching the woods behind the manhunters, then pounced._

_He landed on the unaware lookout with a_ thud _muffled by the fresh snow, released the catch on his Hidden Blade, and swiftly jabbed the elegant device of death through the man's clothes and flesh, severing the spinal column in an instant._

_The man didn't even have time to grunt before Shay lunged off of his fading body and slashed at the next soldier's neck. The spray of hot crimson splashed across his eyes, blinding him for a moment. He cursed in the darkness as the man let out a rather loud gurgle, then groaned inwardly at the cries of shocked outrage an instant later._

_"For fucks' sa-" he began to mutter before the wind was knocked out of him._

_The soldier that had knocked Shay to the ground tried to punch him in the windpipe, but Shay managed to just barely release his Blade before the fist reached the soft part of his neck. The soldier grunted in enraged agony as the steel edge sliced through the scarred stump of a thumb, severing the valuable appendage entirely, and bit into the joints of his fingers._

_He released the Blade, drawing the gushing wound against his chest, and in that moment of weakness, Shay swept the Blade across the man's neck. Blood painted his lips like streaks of ruby across a stone._

* * *

 

 _The last man, seeing the brutal way in which his compatriots had died, turned heel and fled, cursing between pants for breath. Tears streamed from his darting eyes as the feeling of terror and dread multiplied tenfold at every snap of a branch, every animal cry in the ebony night._ I've seen the Devil, _his panicked mind thought._ Oh, God, what have I done to deserve this?

_He ran into a clearing amidst the trees. Slowing, the man gulped air like a fish, chest heaving._

_There was rustling behind him._

_He spun round; nothing._

_Sweat trickled down his spine._

_He turned back._

_The Devil was in right in front of him._

_He backpedaled, falling over not a foot away from the Devil. The man tried scrambling away on his hands and back, and only succeeded in tearing up the soft flesh of his hands._

_He held up a bleeding palm towards the Devil. "Please, don't! I-I-I won't tell anyone, I swear on my life!"_

_The Devil's eyes were brown and sorrowful as he drew a fiery sword from his waist. "Just a child," he whispered._

_The young man's heart pounded like a drum._

_The last thing he heard before the cold metal bit into his neck was, "I'm sorry."_

* * *

 

"That's not everything."

Shay sighed, giving Liam an exhausted glare. "Of course it isn't."

"Tell me more."

"No."

" _Tell me._ "

" _No_ , Liam." Shay ran a hand down his face, giving another sigh. He gazed at the ground beneath his feet.

"Why the fuck  _not_?"

"Because now is not the time."

Liam, who was standing, threw up his hands. "Of  _course_  it isn't. It never is with you, is it?"

"Liam-" Shay slowly rose to his full height and turned to face him.

"No. No more, Shay. No more lies, no more holdouts. Either you tell me  _now_ , or we're through."

Shay's face twisted in pain, and he hung his head. "I can't," he mumbled.

Liam clenched his teeth, fists tight. "Go, then. Talk to the 'love of your life' about it, then. You obviously trust her more than me."

Spitting at the ground before Shay's feet, he turned on his heel and ran towards the Homestead.

* * *

 

Hope watched Shay as he walked slowly towards the fire and her. The setting sun caught his hair, making it shine darkly. He looked like a dejected angel who had just fallen from heaven. Her heart twisted in her chest, even as a giggle slipped unwarranted from her lips.

 _What happened?_  she wondered. Liam had passed her not an hour ago, eyes set on the Davenport Manor, and had kept going even when she had called out for him, even  _commanded_  him, to stop.

Shay drew near, sitting down on an adjacent log. She opened her mouth to question him.

"I'm a monster."

Hope, shocked, paused from getting up. Where was  _this_  coming from?

Shay sniffled, then looked up at her. Her heart twisted further. His parted hair was mussed, his nose dribbled snot, and his eyes- oh, his terrible, beautiful eyes! Such pain! Such rage! Such- she stopped herself from continuing that particular trail of thought.

Shay gazed at her with such intensity, Hope had no choice but to look away, blushing furiously.

 _Stop that,_  she chided herself.  _You're an Assassin, Jensen, not some bloody starstruck milkmaid!_

She dared glance at him again; finding the same gaze still fixed on her, she sat up straighter and cleared her throat. "What's this about, Shay? What did you do to Liam? Why-" She stopped herself from voicing the rest of the question:  _Why won't you_ look _at me?_

"I told him the truth," Shay said in a hollow voice, "and he hates me for it."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes flashed with something she could not understand. "If I told you, Hope, you'd-" He looked away, choking up. "You'd think me mad." His voice was thick with emotion.

Hope rose silently and walked over to Shay. She rested a hand on his back, stiffening when he first flinched, then leaned into her embrace. She heard quiet sobs coming from him. "I will  _not_ ," she whispered to him.

"But you will," he sobbed. "You will, and then you'll leave me because of fear."

"Fear of what?" She tried to keep her voice level despite the wave of dread that flowed through her bones.

"Of what I'll do," he said simply. "Fear of what I've done."

"No. Never, Shay, never."

Shay wrenched away from her grasp, gripping the sleeves of her dress in both hands. She winced as pain spread over the area.

"Shay, not so-"

"Don't leave me, Hope." His tone was pleading and panicked. "Please, don't. I couldn't live with myself otherwise."

" _Shay-_ "

"I love you."

Her heart leapt for joy just as her rational mind rebelled against the words she'd longed to hear for the past five years.

"I love you, Hope." He was rambling now, words gushing out of his mouth like water from a broken jug. "I've loved you for so long. I don't even know how many times I've wanted to tell you. And then-"

His face contorted in grief, and his eyes filled with tears once more.

"It's all my fault. All of the bloodshed, all the wars. All because of me and what I'd done."

Rage fell over him like a dark cloud.

"No, no. It's  _him_.  _He_  made me do it, Hope. That  _bastard._  He shot Achilles!"

Her heart, already beating a feverish pace against her ribcage, spiked.

"I need to stop him!" Shay let go of her, rising to his feet. "Need to-"

Hope, hands trembling, withdrew a sleep dart from her pocket and jabbed it into his neck.

Shay, his rant interrupted, stumbled away a few paces, ripping the dart from Hope's grasp. He slapped at his neck, withdrew the dart, and stared at her in terror.

"I'm sorry, Shay."

Shay's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed to the ground, shivering.

Hope knelt next to him an instant later, putting a hand near his forehead. She could feel the heat like a fire from inches away.

Panicking, she hoisted him to his feet, put his arm over her neck, and started towards the lantern-lit Manor.

"Help!" she screamed into the night. "Someone,  _help!"_


	4. III: Deliverance

III: Deliverance

 _"You're late,_ again _, Shay."_

_"Hope… I didn't want to do this."_

_"I_ trained _you to do this. I expected nothing less."_

 _"Then_ why _-"_

_"To give Liam time to leave… Soon, Chevalier will be on his way to the Precursor site…_

_"I will stop him."_

_"He will see you coming. Pity… you had so much_ potential _…"_

* * *

 

**_March 1752, Davenport Homestead, Massachusetts Bay, British America_ **

Hope rubbed at her eyes, groaning inwardly as the tsunami of sleep threatened to overtake her.

"I will not," she muttered, gazing out the manor window at the snowfall. "He needs to answer for his actions. He  _owes_  me that."

"Hope…"

She startled at the rumble of her name. She glanced at the bed, relaxing as she saw that Shay's eyes were still closed.

Hope allowed her eyes to roam over his half-clothed form, lingering on the dark blemishes that marred his pale skin: long brown scars, black pockmarks, and discolored patches of skin. She felt her cheeks grow warm as she moved further down, tracing the flare of black hair on his chest as it crossed over his belly button before disappearing into the white sheets.  _Stop tempting yourself, Hope. Nothing good will come of it._

"I hope I'm not intruding," a voice called from the doorway.

Hope turned in her seat to see Mistress Drake standing just before the threshold into the bedroom.

"Not at all, Mistress Drake," Hope replied, smiling warmly at the elder woman as she entered the bedroom and walked over to the desk chair.

Easing into the seat, Drake grunted. "All those years on a ship, and this is what stops me from moving? Weak knees and a bad back?"

"I'm sure you'll be fine, Mistress."

"Oh, stop that. Mistress makes me feel old and snooty. Please, just Anne."

"Yes, ma'am." The two exchanged grins before Hope's gaze fell upon Shay once again.

Anne noticed the fresh tenderness in the younger woman's eyes. "Something happened, didn't it? Don't deny it, I can see it on you."

Hope heaved a sigh, looking at Shay one more time before returning to Anne, eyes shining with the weight of tears unshed.

Anne held out her arms, and Hope collapsed into them, tears flowing freely. Her sobs were muffled by brown fabric.

Anne stroked Hope's hair, rubbing her back as the brown-haired woman clung to her painfully tight. Her heart wrenched in her chest as she recalled doing much the exact same thing to Alfonso when she'd discovered Edward's intent to marry Mary. Granted, that event led to happier times, but still… she could empathize.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"H-he told me t-the truth," Hope hiccuped. "He told me the truth, and now I might- I might-"

She collapsed into sobs all over again.

"Hush, now," Anne admonished her gently. "If there's one thing I know about Shay, it's that he'll do whatever it takes to be there for those he cares about."

"But-"

"Peace, child. He'll return to you soon enough. I can feel it in my bones."

Hope sniffled, then released the elder woman, swiping at her eyes before giving the Irish woman a small smile. "Thank you."

"No need, my dear. I care about him just as much as you do."

The two women conversed for a while, grinning and laughing quietly as they shared stories of their experiences with Shay. Finally, Anne glanced at the grandfather clock.

"Looks like it's time for the break. Do you need anything?"

"Some water," Hope requested, then looked back at Shay before continuing, "and some more rags, if you please. I'm afraid he's still in danger of a fever."

"Alright." Anne got up from the chair, walked to the door, and opened it. She paused for a moment, looking back into the room. Hope had taken up her vigil beside Shay once more, both of her hands clasping his left one tightly. Her face was a mask of anguish.

Anne smiled sadly, then shut the door behind her.

* * *

 

**_April 1752, Davenport Homestead, Massachusetts Bay, British America_ **

Shay's eyes shot open, and he sat bolt upright with a shout of terror. He shut his eyes tightly, mind vaguely registering Hope, Liam, and Achilles watching him with concern, and shivered. He could still feel her, an ancient, imperious psyche with no regard for life other than if it benefited her.

"Shay.."

He opened his eyes again, turning to see Liam on his right.

"Wha-" he began to say, then coughed painfully. The coughing continued, shaking his sickly frame.

Hope rushed forward, filling a cup with water and handing it to him. He took it with shaking hands, trying to lift it to his lips without too much of it spilling on the bed-sheets. The ice-cold liquid burned as he swallowed; Shay coughed a few more times before falling back on the pillows, the glass gripped tightly in his hand.

"What happened?" he repeated hoarsely.

"You were in a coma, Shay." Hope's voice was gentle, yet strangely strained. "You've been in bed for a month. We-" She paused, swallowing thickly, then continued. "We almost lost you a few times."

"I'm sorry," Shay whispered, reaching out to grasp her gloved hand.

They smiled at each other for a few moments, eyes speaking for them.

Liam broke in with a cough.

Shay tore his gaze away from Hope to attend to his friend. "Hello, Liam. Why are you here?"

Liam sighed heavily, rubbing at the nape of his neck. He shot a glance at Achilles, who was staring at Shay with a strange expression on his face, then looked back at his dark-haired friend. "I've come to apologize," he muttered, face sour.

Shay waved a hand, a small grin on his face. "Ah, that's just because Achilles put you up to it." At that, he looked at his Mentor. "Am I not correct?"

Achilles simply bent his head in acknowledgement.

"You bugger!" Liam snarled. "How  _dare_  you-"

"Liam." The blonde shrank back at the firm words from both Hope and Achilles, then puffed up once again.

"You have some explaining to do, Shay."

Shay's face took on a weary expression, and he sighed heavily. Slipping his hand from Hope's grasp, he looked at Achilles, asking hollowly, "What do you want to know?"

"Have you betrayed us, Shay?" Achilles' voice was tight.

Shay paused, considering the consequences, before answering, "Yes."

All three Assassins drew in breath sharply.

"But-" Hope's voice cracked with the immense emotion she was struggling to keep in check. " _Why_ , Shay? What  _possible_  reason could you have to side with our worst enemies?"

"To save the world, Hope." Shay gazed at her conflicted features with a saddened heart, before looking away an instant later. "That's all I'd ever wanted to do: save the people, the cities,  _everything_."

"And finding the Precursor artifacts are not enough?" Achilles' voice was void of emotion and dangerously quiet. "Stopping the Templars from enslaving the Colonies is not enough for you?!"

"At what cost, Achilles?" Shay's vision became streaked with gold, shades of people in headwraps and cloaks running past the three Assassins before him, a few passing straight through their bodies like air.

When he looked to the left, he saw a wall of ghostly flame licking at the ceiling. The wall parted, and a hooded man in grey robes, glowing slightly, charged out. Setting golden irises on Shay's chestnut eyes, the Assassin smirked, then hefted an axe and swung at Shay's head.

Shay jerked back with a yelp, heart racing. Liam tensed, ready to release his Blade at a twitch. "Come on, you idiot, stay with us."

Shay turned wide eyes toward him. "You didn't see that?"

"Does it look like I saw anything?"

Shay wiped at his brow, palm coming away wet with sweat. "No, of course not," he chuckled nervously. "Of course you didn't."

Achilles grunted. Liam looked at him warily. "Mentor?"

The African-American Assassin studied Shay for a long time before coming to a decision. "You found an Artifact."

The black-haired Irishman abruptly looked up, shock coloring his features. "How-"

"I've seen these symptoms before, with Master Kenway. I'd heard stories when I was a child, but I never would have imagined-"

"Wait." Shay held up a hand, the other wrapped around his side. "Master Kenway?"

"Yes. Edward Kenway. When I was still a novice, he himself taught me how to climb, how to move amongst the trees like a shadow."

Shay pressed a hand to his head, groaning.

"Now what?" Liam muttered under his breath.

"But- but he's dead. He  _told_  me-"

"Who?"

"H-him. Edward's son…"

"Haytham may have told you that he had died, Shay, but whatever he said was not true. Edward- he is not of this world. Or at least, not this time round."

"Wha- what-"

"Edward- he changed something, knew things he should not have,  _could not_  have known. I don't know how, or why, but what I do know is that a Precursor artifact caused it."

"Then- then the life I had-"

"Would never have happened. Or maybe it always would."

Shay groaned again, massaging his temples. "Then-"

"No," Achilles stopped him with a firm shake of his head. "There will be time for thought later. If you experienced the same thing Edward did, then you must have a reason for coming back. What is it?"

Shay's eyes flicked to Hope for a moment. Something sparked in Liam's chest, but he tamped it down, keeping his face neutral.

Shay looked back at Achilles. "You must stop looking for Precursor artifacts. If you don't-"

"Then the world will be safe," Liam finally snapped.

"No, Liam." Shay shook his head vehemently. "You'll only bring death on hundreds of innocents."

"A small price for the safety of thousands, no?"

"Dammit, Liam, can't you see?! This is exactly what Ezio did."

"Ezio-  _Auditore_?" Hope choked. "How-"

"I don't  _know_  how, Hope. I just  _do_."

"No." Liam shook his head, lips tight. "If we  _don't_  do this, the Templars will find more and more artifacts, and eventually, everything we worked for?" He snapped his fingers. "Gone. I'm not going to stand by and let that happen."

"You have no idea what you're doing, Liam!" Shay called after him as he barged into the hallway and ran out of the Manor.

Achilles shook his head. "You damn fool…"

* * *

 

**_July 1752, Mount Vernon, Virginia, British America_ **

"I'll meet you at the party," Shay said to Hope, turning slightly to look back at the helm of the  _Morrigan_.

"Alright," Hope replied. Calling over a crewman, she let go of the ship's wheel and walked over to Shay, who was leaning against the poop deck railing. She reached up and stroked his cheek, then leaned in close to his ear and whispered, "Stay safe."

"Same to you," he responded just as softly.

Giving Hope a quick peck on the cheek, Shay turned, grabbed the rope, and swung ashore.

Tuning out the idle chatter of the small group he was in, Shay eyed Washington. The man was hobbling along like a snake-bit child, bent over and coughing crimson into a snow-white handkerchief, while guards watched on, their expressions unreadable.

Shay glanced at Hope, who was watching him a few feet away; his eyes flickered a warning as she fingered the catch on her Blade, and he let out a sigh of relief when her eyes flashed in indignation, before she gave a slight nod. It was not her kill to make, despite how much she might want to. This was his responsibility, and his alone.

Washington drew close, his guards standing back a moment as he conversed with a flush-faced diplomat from Tuscany, and in that moment, Shay struck.

Striding forward, he shrugged off the woolen overcoat he'd stolen off a rather vocal musician and draped it over his left wrist, hiding the momentarily-exposed glint of his Hidden Blade. Lifting the other hand, he waved to the sickly Templar. "Master Washington!"

The man turned, hard eyes glinting in suspicion. "Who are you?" The guards approached quickly, hands on their pistols.

"Westley, sir! Surely you remember!" Shay could feel a bead of sweat starting to form on his hairline. Time was running short. "Your father taught me all there was to know about the Garden!"

Washington's eyes brightened. Waving his hand, he beckoned the guards closer; moments later, the pair wandered off, probably to join their brethren in patrolling the grounds.

"Forgive me," Washington said as Shay approached, "but I did not recognize you, Sir Westley. I fear this damnable disease is affecting more than my lungs."

Shay remained silent.

Washington pushed himself up slightly, squinting at him. "You seem different, Sir. What on earth has happened to your hair?"

Thinking fast, Shay stammered, "A-assassins, milord. I was driven away from my assignment by Natives in Halifax, and they set their damned hounds upon me. I needed to disguise myself somehow."

"Hmm," Washington mused, rubbing his mutton chops. "And Grand Master Birch? He is aware of this arrangement?"

"No, milord, not that I am aware of-" Shay began, before Washington interrupted him with a bloody cough.

"Please, call me Lawrence," the sickly man said, sucking in a breath with a grimace. "Being called  _lord_  for any reason simply prickles at my skin." He sighed; then, beckoning Shay to follow, he began walking to the back of the house. "Can you keep a secret. Westley?"

"Certainly, m- Lawrence."

"This whole business with the Precursor Artifacts- it's exhausting, and pointless, at least to me. We've been fighting this war for the past four centuries, and in all that time, we've made  _no_  progress whatsoever. When we gain a spot,  _they_  intrude. What's the point?"

"To be honest, Lawrence, I ask myself the same question every day."

"But to mention even one iota of this to anyone in power in our Order means certain death." Shay's spirit dropped further at the Templar's words. "What does that say about us?"

"I-"

"No need to answer, Westley. I'm sure I'll figure it out with the time I have left."

Shay was now a few paces ahead of the hobbled man; Lawrence reached out and grasped his waistcoat. "Hold, sir. I have but one more question to ask of you."

Shay looked round. The two men were hidden in the shadow cast by the house. "Yes?"

" 'Twas rather bold to speak so plainly of our Order in your greeting, was it not?"

Shay cursed, clenching his fists. "Indeed."

"So then, if you felt such need to bring such risk upon us both, then what message were you meant to deliver?"

"Message?"

Lawrence looked impatient. "Yes, man, the  _message_. That damned Birch must have sent you to deal with my 'incompetence'. So then, what is it? Out with it."

Shay heard little of Washington's questioning, eye upon the flash of vivid blue behind the man. Stepping close to the man, he let the overcoat drop to the dusty ground. "It is about your brother, sir."

"George? What does he-"

Releasing the catch on his Blade, Shay jabbed the cold steel into the man's abdomen, slicing through his intestines and severing his aorta.

Washington grunted, grasping at Shay's arm with rubbery fingers as he stared with wide eyes at the Assassin. He slid backward, off the Hidden Blade, and fell to the ground; Shay caught him just before he hit the dirt, then let him down slowly.

"You-" Lawrence gurgled. "God, I should have  _known_."

"I am sorry, Master Washington, but this is as it should be."

"And Sm- my compatriots? You will hunt them?"

"I must."

"I would ask why, but the answer is self-evident, is it not?" Lawrence chuckled, a wet sound in the back of his throat. "And my brother, George? He will be kept away from this foul business? Or was that just another one of your lies?"

"He-" Shay paused, considering his answer. "Perhaps. I cannot be certain."

"Ah," Lawrence wheezed. "Well, it is better than nothing, I suppose." He smiled. "Thank you, sir. At least now I shall die quickly." He let his head hit the ground, and with one last breath, Lawrence Washington was no more.

* * *

 

**_Two Years Later_ **

"Étain?"

The air glowed honey-gold for a moment before the apparition appeared.

"Must I do this? Can not this time be different?"

She shook her head.

Shay sighed "... As is God's will."

He arose from his seat on the old stump right outside the Homestead, sheathed the sword, and started trudging back to the Manor in the dark. His prayer, lost to the winds, echoed in his mind:  _Dia, déan trócaire orm, peacach._


	5. IV: Bleed

IV: Bleed

" ** _Aginzae zakilae shanata, ia Hadashe, dūnshamza!"_**

**_He arose, ascendant amongst the Bilen-Ersūlnī. He arose, borne on the fervor of their praises. He was becoming as Ūldūrīl…_ **

**_Then he fell, cast out, Azeduler, and great was his fury upon Ers and its people._ **

* * *

 

**_1753_ **

He tasted cloth and iron, felt the fabric as it squelched beneath him.

"He's awake." His heart pounded at the unfamiliar voice

His sight reddened, heat washing over his face.

He opened his eyes to black.

" _Cá bhfuil mé?_ "

"What's he saying?"

Raging in the darkness, teeth gnashing at his tormentor, he snarled.

" _Cá bhfuil mé?_ " He tried to get up, only to feel a sharp sting at his wrists. " _Scaoileadh mé!_ "

"The opium! For God's sake, man,  _hurry!_ "

Wormwood passed between his lips, and he knew no more.

* * *

 

**_June 1754, Davenport Homestead, Massachusetts Bay, British America_ **

Shay swung the axe again and again, arms jarring and growing numb from the continuous, firm  _thud_  of the head against the meat of the pine.

"Ho, Shay!"

He didn't look up, lips set in a grimace. "Anne."

He heard her chuckle, a sound ripe with frustration. "Hope's come calling for you again. It's rude to keep a lady waiting, you know."

A few moments passed, silent besides the thump of the axe and the sharp cries of the hawks.

"She's worried about you, you know. We all are."

A bitter smile was the only reply.

A few more seconds, then: "You're a right selfish arse."

"I know."

She huffed, pivoting away and striding back towards the manor. "You're bleeding, by the way."

Shay rubbed at his eyes.

His hand came away crimson.

Startled, he looked up at Anne-

" _Hello, cipher."_

_A silent scream tore from his throat._

" _I wonder what their plans for you are? They've seen the calculations; surely they must know…" The being trailed off, lost in thought._

Etain!  _He cried out, heart bruising his chest with its rhythm._

" _Shay, Shay, Shay." It- it couldn't be a she. Could it?- stalked towards him, sensual and petrifying at once. "I've waited so_ long _…"_

_It sighed._

" _Perhaps a bit longer yet."_

_It was on him in an instant, nails like talons gripping his chin, his flesh, curves pressed close, far too close. Its mouth tasted of acrid pomegranates, cloying rot, and crazed thirst, slithering tongue choking him, blackening his vision as the red licked at crimson orbs._

" _Awake, my love. Awake, that we may cleanse our home."_

" _Awake."_

" _A-"_

"Wake up!"

He shouted, voice raw with panic and mouth tasting of iron, and swung out wildly. Slender hands caught his fists firmly, forcing them back down at his sides.

"Stop, Shay! For Chrissake,  _stop!_ "

He panted for a few moments, heart pounding.

"Wha- what-"

He stuttered, blinking dumbly up at his restrainer.

"Keeping you from hurting yourself," she replied simply, her eyes darkened in memory.

Shay's eyes fell to her waist; the phantom feeling of his blade, his hand against her… He shuddered. "You shouldn't be here."

"Well, it's not like you left me much choice," she shot back, eyes flashing. "Always, you make a mess of things, Shay, and  _I'm_  always the one to fix the problems  _you_  started."

He opened his mouth, blood heating quickly, then abruptly closed it and looked away. "You shouldn't have done that."

"And what would you have done?" she snapped exasperatedly. "They were simple kills, Shay, easy. Yet,  _somehow_ , you still manage to cock it up."

"I-"

She huffed frustratedly, brushing an askew strand out of her face, and looked away. Muttering something under her breath, she started to get up.

"Wait. Hope-"

He reached out for her, grasping at her dress.

"Stop, Shay."

He stopped.

"Just…" Straightening up, she heaved a sigh, then looked at him sadly. "Just stop."

Shay stared at her in astonishment.

"Abigail and Connor just  _died_ , Shay." Hope swallowed thickly. "They're  _gone_ , and you didn't  _even_ -"

Abruptly, she stopped and turned away. Shay was starting to get up when she whispered brokenly, so faintly that he almost missed it: "Who  _are_  you?"

* * *

 

Arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close.

"I can't-"

Hope felt him shudder against her back as he drew in a breath.

"I can't tell you. There's too much at stake, Hope. The less you know, the safer you are."

"That's not good enough, Shay. Not anymore."

"Please, just-" Shay sighed. "Have some faith in me. I know what I'm doing, what  _needs_  to be done."

She chuckled bitterly, a sour sound. "That's all I have now.  _Faith_."

* * *

 

The paper, worn and crusted with sea salt, crackled in his shaking hands.

_Achilles,_

_I am sorry, my brother. May you find some measure of peace in the years to come, in the knowledge that you will see the ones you love again._

_Safety and peace,_

_E.K._

He hurled the letter into the fire, eyes burning like embers in the cold night, and watched it blacken and crack like his heart.

A short cough sounded behind him.

"How is he?" he asked, still staring at the smoldering ashes of the former letter.

Hope's voice sounded strained with worry and exhaustion."He's still having night terrors, raving about these 'Isu' beings and Cornwallis until he grows hoarse."

Achilles dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Continue to watch him. We don't know the extent to which the Precursors have affected his mind, but I fear things will come to a head soon."

Hope started. "Mentor-"

" _No_ , Hope!" He twisted his head to look at her, some sick part of him swelling in satisfaction at her instant state of submission. "You  _cannot_  let your emotions for Shay blind you to the true nature of his affliction. There is danger in that man, danger that will spread to all of us if we do not handle this with care."  
She pressed her lips together, then, nodding shortly, replied, "Yes, Mentor."

Hope made to leave, motions stiff and jerky, when the box crashed through the window adjacent to the fireplace, skittering to a stop at her feet. She stooped to pick it up, then, undoing the latch, looked inside… and immediately dropped it with a piercing shriek, falling flat on her behind and scooting away from the container with terror in her eyes.

"Hope!" Achilles rushed to her side, kneeling to help her up.

"Achilles-" she sobbed as she grasped onto him, body shuddering in horror. "It's-it's-"

Shushing the hysterical woman into whimpers, Achilles finally looked at the box in the warm glow of the firelight, and felt a chill run over him.

The flickering light washed over the ruddy brown of the once-ivory patch of fabric, the solitary ring finger, and the blood-encrusted lock of blonde hair within the oak jewelry box, and illuminated the words carved into the wood with a razor edge:  _Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin_.

* * *

 

**_1754_ **

" _Come to me, my young lion._ "

He heard her whisper in his ear, like sweet honey from a lover's kiss, and turned to her. He beheld her in her great beauty, blinded to the serpentine trek of her gaze as she watched him approach.

He drew in a sharp breath at the sudden nip of pain from his neck, phantom finger twitching at the sensation, eyes staring straight ahead as she put her poison lips to his ear and hissed: " _Protect me, my shield. This is your sole desire: to see the_ eram-nagallū _brought low, never to be again in this land."_

"For you, my life, dear Uni," the golden-haired vessel said, lips curving in a smile, "is forfeit."


	6. V: Iudas

V: Iudas

**_October 28, 1754, Two Bends, River Valley, Virginia, British America_ **

She awoke to a cold bed and silence.

Hope sat up, feeling for the warmth that eluded her.

"Shay?" she yawned, stretching and feeling her vertebrae pop satisfyingly. She turned to the side of the bed where Shay slept, only to find rumpled sheets.

"Shay?" she called again.

Silence.

Rising from the bed they shared, Hope wrapped a blanket round herself and shuffled towards the washroom. Cupping her hands, she submerged her arms in the lukewarm riverwater, then splashed her face several times in an effort to wake up.

Pausing for a moment, her face creased as silence resounded through the little cottage. "Where is he?"

_Put him out of your mind for a moment, Hope. Surely there's a good enough reason for him to not respond._

_But what if-_

_No, don't think like that. He's fine_.

Hope continued arguing with herself as she wandered throughout the house, moving back and forth between finding the Irishman and leaving him be.

The door shuddered at a knock.

"Come in," she called; a moment too late, she realized her mistake. "No, wait-!"

The door creaked open, and a young man poked his head in. "I've a mes-"

Hope let out a shriek and dashed towards the door. " _Get out!_ "

The young man, eyes wide, could only stare, frozen, as Hope pushed him out and slammed the door in his face.

Hope let out a breath, cheeks red with embarrassed fury. A few moments later, with most of her body covered by a gown, she opened the door once more. The kid was still standing there, blinking rapidly.

"What is it, Sam?" she demanded, impatient.

"Sir Cormac wanted me to deliver a message to you, Mistress, right away." The teenager's voice still held a hint of shock.

"Well? Give it here." She held out her hand.

Sam withdrew a slip of paper, which Hope promptly snatched away. She skimmed the small half-sheet, hands gripping it tighter and tighter as she neared the end.

"Mistress?" Sam inquired cautiously.

The paper split raggedly down the middle.

"Damnit, Shay," Hope said, voice quivering. "Where  _are_  you?"

* * *

 

**_November 1, 1755, Lisbon, Portugal_ **

Shay wiped his nose, sniffling, as he looked at the city awash in the break of day. Ghost flames flitted across the surface of his mind, shifting from the hell he knew to the paradise he saw before him and back again.

He breathed a silent prayer:  _Dia, logh dom._

* * *

 

Shay made to put his foot onto the pedestal, then paused. This is when everything changed.  _All those deaths... and I can do_ nothing  _to save them._

 _I am sorry, Shay,_  Etain responded, voice ethereal and contrite.  _If this does not occur_ exactly _as it happened in the initial timeline, then the entirety of humankind is at risk._

 _Of_ what _, Etain? No matter how many times I ask, you always answer me with more riddles and trickery. What could be so dangerous that no one must know?_

 _No time. We must go,_ now _._

 _Fine,_  Shay grumbled, noting the singular gaze of a toddler in one of the back pews of the convent, thumb in mouth and slobber drenching his palm..

He waved at the infant.

He stared back in turn.

_You probably killed him, you know._

Shay shuddered at the thought, then, fists clenched, he stepped onto the pedestal.

Every second was an eternity of doubt, of loathing and dread.

The platform clicked into place and he stepped off, head full of whispers from a time gone by:  _Murderer._

_Traitor._

_Hunter._

_Templar._

Shay slowed as memories washed over him, feeling warm liquid drip onto his lips. He swiped at it, grimacing at the lightness of his head and the blurred glint of crimson staining the black leather.

_The outline of a man with ivory wig and pudgy face. "Ah, Master Cormac! I trust all goes well with the search?"_

_A boy, mouth stretched wide in a smile and holding a crude model chariot. "Look, Da! A cha-car-"_

_A woman's laugh. "_ Chariot _, Liam."_

_A blond-haired Assassin, face stricken in rage and grief. "You! You killed him!"_

Shay groaned and stumbled forward, pressing at his temples as the whirlwind threatened to overcome him. "Not now…"

"SHAY!"

All at once, the visions ceased, replaced by numb shock.

"...Liam?"

The sharp sound of a snaplock being drawn back resounded throughout the massive cavern, and Shay could only stare as his childhood friend lifted the pistol to focus squarely on his chest.

"Liam…"

"Shut up, Shay." Liam's tongue was viperous and cold, piercing Shay's heart and soul through and through. "What was your plan, huh? Steal the Artifact for yourself? Or maybe sell it off to the damned Templars for the highest price?"  
"You have  _n-_ "

Shay hissed as a bullet hit him in the arm, lodging inside his bicep.

" _Quiet!_ " Liam's voice sounded… fragmented, manic. "No more! No more of your lies! I must silence you once and for all,  _Templar._ "

* * *

 

The screams stuck in his mind as he watched the column of smoke rise ever higher into the evening sky through his eyeglass. It was truly hell on earth, and he'd caused it all.

"Leave me be," he snarled as he felt her touch on his mind.

" _It_ had _to happen, Shay._ "

"Don't you think I  _know_  that? Leave me, damn you."

She hesitated for a moment, then acquiesced to his wishes.

* * *

 

**_November 10, 1755, Davenport Homestead, Massachusetts Bay, British America_ **

They were waiting for him when he entered the Manor's office. Before he even opened his mouth, Achilles spoke. "Did you think we would not discover your treachery, Shay?"

Shay's brow furrowed in confusion. "Achilles-"

"They found Liam, Shay. He said that you  _attacked_  him and tried to steal the Artifact." Hope's voice was as cold as the winter air.

" _What?_ " Shay shook his head, gritting his teeth at the spike of pain that shot through his mind and side at the words. "No. No,  _he_  attacked  _me_."

"Then why were you there in the first place, Shay?"

"I… I… I cannot say."

Achilles' voice sounded stern and disappointed. "'Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent. Hide in plain sight. Never compromise the Brotherhood.' Have you forgotten our tenets so easily, Shay?"

Shay gritted his teeth, but did not respond.

Achilles sighed, then motioned towards the Irishman. As he spoke, Hope approached Shay, rolling up his sleeves with quivering hands and unlatching his Blades from his forearms. "I had such hopes for you, Shay. Truly I say to you, you were to be my heir. But in your arrogance, you have betrayed our trust, your brothers, and the Creed. And  _that_  I cannot abide."

Shay looked at Achilles with a steady gaze, head and heart numb, then turned to Hope, chest spiking at the apologetic look in her eye.

"I'll see myself out," he said. Then, turning on his heel, he marched out the door.

* * *

 

Not for the first time that night, Shay cursed himself. If only his own selfish desires had been stemmed, then none of this would have happened.

"But it has to," he said to himself as he slogged towards the Manor through the heavy snow. "I  _won't_  let it happen again."

Reaching the Manor, Shay peered into the windows, watching for any sign of movement. The halls resounded with silence.

He clambered onto the second-floor balcony and, with the tip of his dagger, broke the window-lock. Ever so slowly, he entered the Manor, careful to not make noise, lest Achilles wake and discover him.

Shay blinked, eyes awash in white and gold, and made his way to the office. Thankfully, the door made nary a sound as he opened and closed it. Hurriedly he broke the lock on the box containing the Manuscript, teeth tight at the whine of metal against metal as the box unlatched. He grabbed the ancient parchment, rolled it up tightly and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

The door creaked behind him.

"I have to do this, Achilles. You cannot stop me."

"I can, and I will."

Shay sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "You can try."

* * *

 

Shay let out a pained breath, right hand clutching at his bruised side and the other clasped around the piece of paper, as he watched his former comrades form an arc in front of him.

"That's far enough, Shay," Achilles shouted over the howl of the wind, musket pointed at his chest.

Shay looked at his former Mentor with a tired gaze for a moment, then glanced at each of the Assassins in turn, heart twisting at the sight of those he had killed with his own blade. "Not far enough. Not yet."

"Give back the Manuscript, Shay!" Hope's voice was a stab to the soul; Shay's eyes welled with tears at the sound. "I'm sure Achilles-"

_This is the last time I saw her. The last time before…_

"I cannot!" Shay shouted, voice raw with emotion. "I  _will not_  let this happen again! All those lives lost-"

He looked back at the cliff edge, then started to move towards it. Reaching the edge, he looked back at the Assassins, letting the paper slip from his grasp and flutter to the snow underfoot.

"One more hardly matters."

He turned his back and spread his arms, heart racing.

" _Shay!"_

A crack of thunder; fire blossomed in his shoulder, and Shay slipped into the darkness below.


End file.
